Wolf
by meltinglacier
Summary: Oh, how satisfying, to walk down the road and know that if he so pleased, an explosion would destroy these people's lives. He controlled their fates, whether they knew it or not. Kimblee-centric.


**Wolf**

**Summary: **Oh, how satisfying, to walk down the road and know that if he so pleased, an explosion would destroy these people's lives. He controlled their fates, whether they knew it or not.

**Parings: **None.

**Warnings: **Kimblee's twisted mind.

**A/N:** Edited: Thanks to LovelyWeather for pointing out a mistake; it has been fixed now.

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><p>There was nothing that Solf J. Kimblee loved more than an explosion.<p>

Everything about it delighted him. The anticipation building as the world seemed to still. The moment when their screams cut off abruptly, caught in a glorious explosion of sound and color. The sweet ringing silence just after the explosion. There truly was no equal to that wonderful event.

A sudden weight hit his legs and he had to wheel his arms in an ungainly fashion to stay balanced. A tattooed palm inched out toward a head of messy hair.

"Oh, gosh, mister! I'm so sorry!"

His hand stopped, and he considered the boy in front of him. After a moment, he smiled and nodded. "Not a problem, young man."

The little boy who had knocked into him spared him one apologetic glance before dashing off. He would never know how close he had come to death. And even if he did, he wouldn't appreciate the way that he would have died.

Common people didn't understand alchemy. They saw it as a cold science, something useful but ultimately unsatisfying. Some alchemists were like that as well. They were content just to memorize lines and circles, to study dry textbooks and ignore any deeper meaning that they found in it. They couldn't comprehend what alchemy really was.

Solf had worked at his alchemy, perfecting it until it was no longer a mere science. It was an art form, a glorious transcending of morality, a timeless expression of pure freedom. Freedom from ethical constraints, social expectations and obligations. An explosion in itself was not good or bad; it was nothing but what its master wished.

And Solf was master.

That wasn't to say that Solf didn't enjoy other activities.

He delighted in walks too, long strolls through Central at noon hour especially. Winding his way down busy streets, reaching up to shade his eyes from the sun, stopping for a moment at a flower stand to enjoy the smells.

Oh, how satisfying, to walk down the road and know that if he so pleased, an explosion would destroy these people's lives. He controlled their fates, whether they knew it or not.

Take, for instance, the little boy that had bumped into him not five minutes earlier. He could have turned him into a ticking time bomb, but he had been feeling generous. And besides that, the boy had apologized, and who was he to take away one of the few young people with some semblance of manners? The next generation was rude enough without him decreasing the number of good children in the world.

Teenagers these days, he thought, as he passed a group of rough-looking youth who sullenly eyed his suit. He smirked. These children were playing at being adults. They probably hadn't even killed yet.

The first time that he killed someone, he had been fifteen. He had kept an eye on a pretty blonde girl who smiled at him every morning. For months, he worked up courage, fighting within himself. His dreams had been macabre paintings of lights and sound and soft, ripe skin ready to burst. He had knocked her out, a clumsy blow to her head, and tied her up.

The fear and terror in her eyes when they had finally fluttered open was awe-inspiring. She shrieked and struggled against the ropes that bound her. Solf had trembled as he approached her. All it had taken was one touch to her skin, one touch for him to alter her body's chemical composition.

That day, his blood sang and his spirit flew free. He understood.

He realized that people were staring at him. He had stopped, the flow of people moving around him as he reminisced. The sheep were getting nervous. They sensed that there was a wolf in their midst. He allowed his face to fall into an amicable expression and continued walking.

As much as he would have loved to linger, he had somewhere to be. He sped up, inwardly lamenting at the loss of a chance to enjoy the city. He soon arrived at Central Military Command. A soldier there gave him directions to the room he was to go to. The boy looked close to wetting himself. It seemed that his reputation proceeded him.

He opened the door. A girl – young woman – turned to him. Blonde hair flashed. Ah, so this was the hostage.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kimblee. My name is Winry Rockbell."

She smiled at him. A lamb to the slaughter.

He smiled back.


End file.
